Underworld
by juliasejanus
Summary: A sort of sequel to Touchdown. Alex with major abandonment issues. Joe Byrne with a conscience. AU post ArkAngel. Alex assumed dead after his fall to Earth.
1. Chapter 1

Preface - 2001

Christmas had come early for Harry Bulman, who had stumbled across the scoop of the century, now he just had to get corroborating evidence before handing this gold mine to the vultures on Fleet Street. The files had arrived anonymously in a parcel left with his neighbour. The investigative reporter had no idea who had supplied data originating from the infamous terrorist group, SCORPIA. He had scanned the truth about Alexander John Rider and was already planning his next step. He was damn sure one of his friends in the SAS would give him a juicy quote off the record, about Stormbreaker and Cub. Here in black and white was proof MI6 had trained a fourteen year old, one who had taken down Herod Sayle, liberated a bunch of rich kids from a bizarre kidnap/murder plot, taken on the Triads, worked with the CIA several times, when the kid had died while investigating Nicholai Drevin and those eco-terrorists, Force Three.

The guaranteed front page splash would make him a household name. This was the pièce de résistance, as the press had really gone to town over the bomb on the Ark Angel Space Station. Then reality kicked in, sobering this former soldier, as he realised that his government had brutalised and as good as murdered a London school kid. In that moment, the story morphed from get rich quick scheme to this tabloid reporter earning his bread and butter, rather than his usual fodder of hacking phones and emails for celebrity dirt. He then noticed the name of Edward Pleasure in the file regarding the Cray business. A man still recovering from an assassination attempt in the summer. He would go to the horses mouth first and if he had to share the spoils, all the better for exposing MI6 for the child killing bastards they were.

…

Liz showed their unexpected guest into her husband's study, as he edited his piece about Desmond McCain. She had met Harry at the Press Association Awards two years ago and thought him just an ambulance chasing type of tabloid scum with no style and no substance. She had been pleasant, bantering bland chitchat, offered tea, all the while wondering what had brought him to their door.

"Sit, make yourself comfortable." Edward offered the chair normally occupied by Sabina's cat, Ruffles.

The ex-SAS soldier took in the details of the extensive library, four filing cabinets and bet their was two safes, a wall variety for appearances and one in the floor for the really dirty secrets. "I take it you get your manor scanned for bugs regularly, Ed?"

"After the trouble this summer, once a week." Edward sighed and came clean straight away. "I see you got my present."

Harry then connected the dots that Edward had been got by MI6, as the spooks had made him sign the OSA, so he could not break this story. "I'm honestly shocked you thought of me. Its not as if I have any form for this sort of big story."

"You were SAS. You have plausible insider connections. I want revenge, Harry. That boy went on holiday with us, saved my daughter's life from Cray. He disappeared in August, next thing I know he's died. I got those files from a very dirty source. One that hates Blunt and co as much as I do. Prove to me that you can get this in the open. Then we can both do the book. This is for Alex, may he rest in peace."

….

2007

….

After four years in development, the NSA Research facility in Washington State was in the final test stages of its AI facial recognition system. The intern rechecked the computer analysis of the full test run and then went to his supervisor.

"Sir, the data from Berlin has thrown up an anomaly."

The man groaned at the high probability of his Columbus Day weekend lost to major recoding. "What's the problem this time?"

"The sweep of Bundesplatz U-Bahn Main Entrance, our test grid, caused a full alert on the system for a CIA cross match. The problem is that Alexander John Rider, died on 9th November 2001 aged 14. The program computed for age changes, considering he's six years older, 97.5% chance that he's very much alive. The sweep picked him and our three known test subjects under disguise, as it was only using internal data sources. I don't have the clearance to stop the alert sent to Langley. This is live for them, now." The intern did not add that he had read the book on the Teen Spy. If half had happened to that kid happened to him, he would have run for cover. Then again how had he survived an bomb, unless he's landed in the Soyuz and the CIA had a dropped the ball. He just felt so guilty that he had outed the runaway.

Two hours later the phone for Joe Byrne rang in Beirut . He was now on the slow down to retirement as CIA liaison at the US Embassy. He picked up immediately recognising the number as the current deputy director of Covert Operations.

"Hi Sylvia, how's things at Langley?"

"I would like to say business as usual but we have an anomaly to check up on. Back in 2001, your surveillance of Nikolai Drevin is not on the system, understandably so due to credible deniability. Was Rider on Archangel when it blew up?"

Byrne grimaced at the memory of the lacklustre response from the US Navy and NASA over an extensive search and rescue for an enemy alien. "No, he made it into the Soyuz, but then all telemetry was lost after the explosion. We traced several of the larger fragments of debris, but without any communications the search was called off after 48 hours. Now you're going to tell me he survived and is on our radar again." It could only be Alex as that Grief Clone had been murdered just before Cossack escaped his British jailers in December 2001.

"NSA caught him on facial recognition in Berlin. Why would he hide out?"

"That's easy, SCORPIA wanted him dead. He'd already survived one assassination attempt. We found out in hindsight that both Kurst and Wu were planning his demise, after that internal coup in 2002, which wiped most of the board out. Only Dr Three is alive. Our analysts stated it was in-house cleaning. Possibly Cossack, but more likely Kroll, who we all suspected was MOSSAD anyway."

"Your replacement will be in Lebanon in four hours. Pack your stuff and bring the kid in."

…..

Another day commuting from Schoneberg to Oberschoneweider, after nine hours work in the coffee shop, near where he and Jack had hung out when he was nine. There were no familiar faces, but it felt like home enough for the young immigrant not to stand out. The wind was bitter this evening as he walked north-east over the Treskowbrucke. Rents in Schoneberg were prohibitive, when he could barely afford his share of the bills in the two room apartment in a rundown, ugly block of Soviet era apartments. He was fond of Mimi, the old queen he shared a flat with. Like himself, she was another of life's rejects. The transvestite had spent years in and out of prison for Western sympathies, always under Stasi surveillance, but still resolute enough to remain true to herself. Sasha had no hard or true legend to fit in legally, as he was just flotsam as an Economic Migrant in a city where thousands were welcomed from the Balkans and former Soviet Union to do menial work. Less lies all round, as Mimi just accepted the kid who moved in four years ago, as a man-child far too young to be living on his own, working far too hard just to live and eat and in danger of the less savoury elements in the city.

In his bag, were the leftovers as Liesl spoiled the poor motherless boy as she surmised he'd grown up in some godless orphanage as she muttered under her breath on the evils of the Communist heathens.

In truth, Alex had grown complacent as he momentarily glanced in the car wing mirror to see the spook expertly tailing him duck for cover. Like any normal person, he travelled the same route to work every day. On the bridge across the Spree, he had noted his shadow, fear gripped him as god only knew for how long he had been under surveillance. His instructors at Malagosto would be laughing saying he deserved the bullet coming his way. Yet, the spook hung back, only observing. The ex-spy was already planning his next moves, to slip away, to be safe. He had to act normally, not to alert the observers that they were rumbled. It was Sunday night, he had Monday and Tuesday off work. The best time for departure was during his morning run, that gave him time to say goodbye to Mimi. His friend deserved that.

He opened the door to the apartment to smell the usual odour of sour damp, coffee and the hint of Mimi's favourite perfume, Jolie Madame. In the hall, he took off his coat and scarf. Placed his bag on the small table and stood waiting for Mimi's attention. As his friend smiled, Alex sank to his knees, eyes lowered on the floor. The signal between them that the young man needed TLC, when he could not articulate hurt, loneliness and abandonment issues into words.

Full of concern, Mimi knew their usual remedy for the blues was an evening listening to classical music on the radio huddled under the covers, "Darling, Sasha. Come into the bedroom. Let's cuddle for a bit." The patient observer noted her beautiful companion made no attempt to move. As suggestion was not enough, orders were on the cards and their dynamic changed to more sexually charged, a role Mimi filled with ease, "Strip, bathroom, now."

Alex knelt on the cold bathroom floor as Mimi turned on the shower. The penitent slave then confessed, as the running water would mask conversation for any bugs listening in. He still spoke in a whisper, "I was followed home. I think I recognised the guy. Last time I saw him I was fourteen, before I ran away. I…." Tears threatened and Alex held back the sob in his throat as the CIA knew he was alive. "Its goodbye tonight, darling. However, this plays out, you'll need a new bedbug." Alex smiled and made eye contact, he had used the pet name Mimi had given the teenager, who used to crawl into his bed after a nightmare. There was no pretence of separate beds now. At twenty Alex was comfortable with this not quite love affair, more just two broken ex-players of the game of life seeking comfort. All their neighbours knew the pair cohabited and were no longer scandalised by the May to December relationship.

…

The video feed from the flat showed the older guy cane his sub, who dutifully asked for another stroke as each landed. The pain stopped at the number forty. The kid was sobbing by the time anal intercourse commenced. Joe Byrne had read the file on Markus Bernd Neumann, AKA Mimi. The Stazi had used the effeminate homosexual as a raven in the early seventies, then had imprisoned him when he grew a backbone and said no. How had Alex Rider ended up here, in a weird abusive relationship, working a shitty menial job, when he had the skills to be an assassin or a major player. The simple truth was Alex was happy staying well under the radar, playing dead. Mimi acting as a protector and carer of a kid who could not trust nor connect with anyone normal. It was not as if Alex had another choice, when MI6 had burned his existence from offical records.

Byrne sipped his coffee as he watched the sorry scene play out, then spoke softly to the survellience technician, "Turn it off, wipe the files and I mean destroy all backups" He then picked up his phone, more than ready to go back to his nice hotel for a few hours sleep.

The technician listened in, as this stakeout was the weirdest ever, on some kid barely shaving and seemingly worth a former deputy directors time.

"Afternoon, Sylvia. I know you've been waiting with baited breath for my assessment on Rider. I plan a soft contact approach. We offer him the full witness protection stateside. If he runs, we don't do anything. He's a mess. Our psychological team are likely to have a field day on the damage we've done to that great kid."

Byrne sighed, not caring this would be gossip around all their field office by morning, "He knows me, I need no backup. The Gardiner Legend will still work, so there should be no hiccups travelling across international borders without alerting any other agencies. Just courier that passport here for tomorrow. Lets keep this simple and between us."

….

Leaving the warmth and comfort of their bed after being in denial of his need to flee as he listened to the early morning traffic, Alex stepped onto the cold floor. He kissed the still sleeping lover then went to pack bare essentials and dress in his running clothes. He observed no onlookers as he exited via the rear door to the refuge bins. He hopped over the fence and then ran fast for the cover of trees and his planned route heading east to Erkner, to steal a car and drive to Poland and to keep running.

Byrne was sat at the bus stop waiting for Alex, even before the runner made it across An der Wuhlheide, stopping dead as he saw the spymaster was waiting for him, who had anticipated his escape route, knowing the young man had already left his life in Berlin behind. "I owe you more than I can repay, I cannot speak for my government as they tend to go for the easiest and cheapest option available" was a bold statement of fact.

Alex's face remained as impassive as if made of stone, "I know you were overruled about the search and rescue operation. That reporter did a fairly decent job of making your Secretary of State seem like a short sighted bean counter."

"That he did." Byrne smiled sadly. "NASA stated Drevin's bucket of bolts was doomed from the start, without a billionaire with genocidal tendencies. You saved tens of thousands again. All I can offer is a secondhand counterfeit passport in the name of Alex Gardiner and accompanying legend that will satisfy the Departments of State, Immigration and Customs and Border Protection. I have enough savings to get you stateside, Business Class, not Coach and you can live in my apartment in Georgetown, while I go back to sunning myself in Beirut".

"No spying for me?"

"Currently, you would fail both a physical and a psychological assessment as a field agent. Langley has some standards, not many, but some."


	2. Chapter 2

On the 13th February 2002, timed for Alex Rider's fifteenth birthday, the story about MI6's teenage spy broke. Three days later, the Prime Minister resigned. Four days later, Alan Blunt was arrested for child cruelty and neglect causing or allowing the death of a child. The attempts to wipe all records relating to the dead child from official records failed as the Prime Minster in his resignation speech had spoken of meeting the teenage hero and bearing him no ill will for his own injuries sustained in the firefight at the science museum and then stating he had been assured this operation had been a one time thing. As the named guardian in the will of Ian Michael Rider, Blunt was going down for a long time. On the other side of the world, Edward, Liz and Sabina Pleasure were sworn in as US citizens.

Alex had found out about his post mortem fame long after the banner headlines had been replaced by the Middle East crisis that summer. The lack of any lifeline home had tempered his plans, when he picked going to Germany to try and live like a normal teenager and failing miserably, lost knowing all who had known him thought him dead. The only consolation was fate had dealt Blunt a damning blow of prison, the loss of his wife, who left him then spilled sordid details of the master spy to the same tabloid paper which published the Alex Rider Story. The teenager's favourite quote was the trophy wife tearfully stating she would have loved, cherished and adopted the dear nephew of their friend Ian and she would never forgive her bastard husband, who had driven this 'son' to an early grave. It had been Byrne who had told him that SIS had officially disbanded of MI6 Special Operations. There super secret replacement had been up and running with days, but it appeared that there was no more official black ops in the UK.

The story had run out of steam, but only after more and more ludicrous details were revealed by Alex's close friends including his first 'girlfriend' Fiona Friend, the traumatised Paul Drevin, who hero worshiped his fellow patient from St. Dominics, to the real surprise as most at Brookland stated he was a great guy. The Pleasures, Tom Harris and Jack Starbright had said nothing. Neither had the kids from Point Blanc. The memorial added to Ian's grave stone had become a shrine to this lost hero. The teenager described by Bulman had not had to beg, borrow, lie, cheat and steal to survive.

….

It was a rather jaded Alex Gardiner who travelled to DC with his 'cousin' Joe Byrne. The cousin part was way better than the of spy's original suggestion of 'uncle'. The twenty year old had countered that horrible reflection of reality with his preferred legend of sugar daddy and twink. After six years of being 'Sasha', Alex was back pretending to be the son of Belinda and Tom, with the tag line he'd run away from his foster home as a very wayward teen. The steward was handsome , so Alex got to flirt, while drinking two more than strictly necessary vodka martinis. The alcohol let him sleep for four hours rather than endure the film choices on offer.

Joe Byrne never slept on any flight, be it First class luxury or in the back of a Jolly Green Giant. He was too much of a hardened professional to feel safe anywhere but his home or a fully secure safe house. These moments of enforced rest meant this seasoned traveller got the chance to catch up on reading for pleasure or watching a newish film to keep fresh with popular culture. This afternoon he watched Alex sleep. For once in his life he had been liven the chance to correct a mistake and redress the balance where he far too often had to think of the bigger picture and the collateral damage that entailed. In 2001, after 9/11 the war on terrorism had sharpened the CIA's focus and it had been easier to shred all evidence over Drevin and his megalomania. At least Alex was enjoying the for and drink on the flight. During his surveillance he had noted the kid was clean as Mimi did not drink. The sixty two year old veteran of the cold war, glasnost and the Middle East, he had seen the twenty year old polish off two dinners, while refusing wine and sticking to straight vodka. Was the legend of 'Sasha' based off some stage encounter with Russians during the kid's travels from Pacific atoll to Germany? Then again, Sarov had done a number on this kid on Cuba playing the 'father issues' card and the horror of the his suicide had damaged Alex and MI6 had done nothing to assuage that psychological impact.

As breakfast was served, Alex asked what was happening after their arrival in DC. "Am I off to the Farm to be debriefed?"

Byrne smiled ruefully, "With the no official involvement card played over Ark Angel, QED no need to go anywhere near spook central. Sylvia will want a verbal report from me, but you are not on our files. Well after the death of Sarov, I kept your fake ID on file for possible future use and well, I always had a suspicion that your capsule had made it down in one piece. I alerted my counterparts in Australia, thinking you'd end up there, but that all went pear shaped with Wu's failed bombing of the oil platform. The only person you might visit semi offically is a retired plastic surgeon for real modifications to put off any AI hits in future."

Alex shuddered at the thought of a real stranger in the mirror, when he already was disassociated from who he was and who he had been. "I need help first. I'm not 100%. A bucket load of issues thanks to Ian and the Bank. Mimi was great, but she was only helping keep the demons of depression, loneliness and loss at bay."

The career spook took a long look at Alex, "Its good to know you're still that great kid I knew. It takes a brave soul to admit you need help. Luckily, you are covered under my health insurance as long as you reside at my place. No hospitals, just visits to my shrink, Joel. He's a bastard, as only an ex-deep cover spook can be and he will fight your corner. He lost his son in Iraq and has a huge grudge over those in charge fucking things up. Either that or join me bean counting in Beirut; with five forms needed for every requisition. Yes, being out in the open means you need to conform to government bureaucracy. Covert is much easier, when you can blackmail or just plain steal what you need."

…..

Edward Please had received a very strange email from Joe Byrne, suggesting they meet up as he was in DC for the next three weeks and left his personal mobile number. Of all the spooks involved, the CIA deputy director had been the only one to offer condolences in person to the journalist, his family and to Jack Starbright. Not one communication in six years, made the San Francisco based writer wonder what had happened. The last hurrah over the whole Rider business had been Blunt only serving four years on house arrest and was now living in exile in France. Alex's godfather had died as had a team of SAS on Dragon Nine in 2001. He sighed, pondering his grief and guilt over his daughter's friend; knowing that an offer of home might have prevented the chain of events that lead to his death; but he was too much of a realist to think that coulda should woulda was anything but a conscience salving exercise. He decided on keeping it purely work and not invite Liz along, knowing it was bad news. In DC, he could network with old friends, so he emailed back saying sure, name a time and place.


	3. Chapter 3

The journalist sipped a fine dry Jerez sherry at the Tapas bar, waiting for Joe Byrne. He then helped himself to the bar snack, smoked almonds. The place was fairly busy for a Tuesday. He had enjoyed his two days in Washington so far. He was guessing it was not bad news, considering the invitation to dinner. The group of tourists arrived to take advantage of the happy hour deals, so there was not a table left. Edward checked his watch, he had been early; wanting some liquid relaxation before dealing with a professional liar. The only point of connection he had with the company man was Alex. It had been six long years since his daughter's friend's death and he had moved on, but that dull disconnection was more of a scab covering a wound, as the grief lingered and the bitterness of regrets and might have beens.

Dressed in a mismatched combo of cargo pants, denim shirt and tweed jacket, the American spy sat down and the barman immediately served him a black coffee and a brandy. The American then in perfect Mexican Spanish thanked 'Javier' for his consideration. "Best coffee this side of the white house. God, I miss working in Europe. I want to retire to Italy and drink espresso til my heart gives out." The man downed the brandy, followed in short order by the tiny coffee; when a second round was then served by the waiting barman "Bad day… I have been questioning every decision I've ever made. I hope calling you in isn't one of them. I've ordered take-out. My treat, but we're going to a friend's house. Joel Malone. I know you've read his stuff on PTSD. Well, I was a patient, before he became my stress relief when I landed stateside. I'm being obtuse, I know. You'll understand when we get to his place."

…

Four days of Facing off with a wily old psychologist, used to the careful omissions of trained operatives, which meant Alex could not bullshit about being fine. He broke the current stalemate by throwing in his sojourn to assassin school "I had a few sessions with a shrink at Malgosto. The SCORPIA training facility, other than that I have had no professional therapy."

The kid was slick with his diversionary tactics, Joel liked the spiral of word play and good old shock-horror as Alex continued to avoid the one personal hell mixed in a life filled with trauma filled memories. The talk talk talk was closing in the real life changing event. Something so horrific that a kid trained from infancy to be a survivor had found solace with the one person afterward to show empathy.

"Those tests scared me more than anything. My answers reflected the horror of those missions. The near death experiences, the threats, interrogations and my risk taking, which kind of bled into home life as well. I still dream of Sarov, dead, me covered in blood brains and gore.

"I never told Mimi about life before, she just joined the dots and knew I was fucked up, traumatised big style. So did Lisl, my boss at work. She thought I was a Russian or Ukrainian orphan/runaway and probable rent boy. She also thought Mimi was my pimp."

Joel stopped taking notes, took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You seem happier to talk about Berlin, about spying but nothing in between. That's fourteen months between crash landing in the Pacific to moving in with Mimi." The psychologist looked directly at the young man and was brutally blunt "How did you survive?"

Alex knew their was no more fannying about to be done. "I was unconscious when the fishing boat from Taumoka picked me up. I'd been delirious for a couple of days before that. A few more hours and I would have been shark meat. They got me rehydrated, gave me clothes. None of them spoke much English. The guys took me home and their tribal elders seemed to think I was a good omen. Their shaman took me in. That's a few sessions in itself, cause I was completely stoned for a few weeks with some sort of fermented juice. The post boat arrived the next month and I hitched a ride to the Guadalcanal, which was stupid, total chaos with sudden departure of the Australian peace keeping troops. I tried to contact my godfather, but the telephones weren't working and the guys with the UN thought I was an Aussie and gave me a lift to Port Morseby, but it was chaos there as well. I was a bit shocked that Australia just closed its borders, no traffic in or out. I was trying to head there, so I went north. The long way round and eventually got to Hong Kong; then found out I was burned from the records and outed as a dead spy. I came back to Europe on a container ship working as galley assistant. Learned Norwegian from the Captain, when I shared his bed."

"I take it coercion and threats were involved?"

The patient shrugged, a deep unguarded expression of sadness evident on the young mans face. "Yeah. I had bogus papers. Nicked off a backpacker. I looked fourteen, not twenty. Te bastard kinda liked the power dynamic as I was trapped in a no-win situation. Not the best way to lose your virginity, but it could have been worst. He was not a sadist. I learned to enjoy the physical aspects of fucking. He was sad to see me go in Istanbul. I was not the first ship's mate to get such attention and I won't be the last. I was not stupid about it and got a full sexual health screening at a clinic. Thank god, he was clean. Guess he stuck to virgins."

Alex sat up and gave up on holding his shit together. He had cried about this before, he would again. Nothing would change the facts. He was alive, he was here talking. Maybe things would be better, but that was irrelevant. He had to sort himself out, because the young man living in Berlin had been barely managing to keep his shit together. "Right, thats the first lesson in real life as a nobody. Getting across the Balkans was 100 times worst than that. Refugees are treated like shit. Kids worst of all. I saw things, I had to just walk away. I learned the hard way, you had to ignore shit because nothing you could do would change the fact this was the bottom of the ladder." Alex did not want to talk about his descent from abused kid to complicit adult, because the right of passage by the time he arrived in Berlin in the summer of 2002 had been no party. "Do I have to relive this? Surviving is the worst. Dying would have been so much easier." Alex took a long drink of water and pondered on a redacted version of the truth, when he had faced his own demons and become a killer.

"Pedophiles and people that get off on killing kids… rape and snuff movies. They bought kids. Younger than me. I was too old. They knew I was used goods and they wanted fresh meat. I saw kids get into cars and knew they would die horribly. I tried to stop a girl going with them and got the crap beaten out of me. The bastards taunted me with what was going to happen to her, showed me their video nasties. Captain Sven was a saint in comparison. They were going to kill me. Saying I had a staring role. Thanks to my training in Venice, I escaped and I killed them all, but I couldn't save Leila. In three days, another set of jerks was back going round the camp, picking up strays. The cycle of horror interrupted but not stopped. What was the point in saving the day, when I could do fuck all about the filth praying on the innocents? We all deserve to burn for turning a blind eye."

…..

The taxi dropped two men off at a smart townhouse in Georgetown. Byrne carried the bags of food and smiled "My home, I rent the attic from Joe. My divorce was brutal, but I deserved that. My high school sweetheart and I were stupid to think love is enough. It never is when you have to lie about everything. She knew I was a spook, only she got jealous that my attention was always in the game, never with here, at home. Fifteen years living in a two bedroomed garret alone. You're here to meet my new roomie, whose keeping Joel entertained with his avoidance and denial expertise."

Edward looked at the nameplate on the door stating this was the practice of Joel Malone, PhD. The man had written books on trauma and PTSD from Vietnam to the War on Terror, an expert in his field of practice. If nothing else, the dinner conversation would be stimulating. The pair entered the kitchen and Edward's steps faltered as there by the sink was stood Alex Rider.


	4. Chapter 4

Alex was taller, leaner and had grown to be a handsome young man. His hair was long and unbrushed. There were dark circles under his eyes and he was tense, while trying hard to appear relaxed, but a nerve was jumping on his jawline and his muscles were taught as if fight or flight was in play. Joel was the first to speak. "Deep breaths, Sasha. Come on with me, in and out, in and out. Feel better."

The tall blond shook his head and turned to look out of the window at the yard, ignoring everyone in the room. The psychologist turned to their guest. "Hi. Edward. Alex has issues over being declared dead. As you can see he's looking good for a corpse or undead zombie. He prefers to be called Sasha. Says all that was Rider died in 2001. He's here in the US using the passport we had made up for him for the Skeleton Key fiasco. So, Edward Pleasure, may I introduce Sasha Gardiner. Alexander is a name for dorks and gullible imbeciles." Joel stood to pour his guest a glass of wine. "Red or white?"

"White wine, please." The journalist took a sip of the crisp chilled Sauvignon Blanc and wondered on how Alex had survived alone for so long, with no money, papers or family. He decided on an introduction as they were practically strangers. "Its good to meet you Sasha. I hope we can be friends. I also want to apologise for breaking the Rider story. Every penny I earned from that book has gone to help teenagers at risk in London. I… I know you told Sabina about MI6, but she did not let me know until you had disappeared. I talked to Jack, she was deported that November. That September, they had already wiped your school records. Your friends and teachers all gave statements. We had video and photo evidence from Tom Harris and James Hale, as well as my own holiday snaps. I'm sorry, I assumed you'd died. NASA and the Russian Spaced Agency were adamant the Soyuz capsule burned up, its trajectory corridor was steep. How? This is a miracle!'

The voice of the twenty one year old was a deep baritone, "No… its a horror story. I breath still, but death would have been preferable to the depths I sank to to get here." Alex then turned to Joe and changed the subject, "Did you get food? I was told you were getting the best tapas in the US. I want paella and I want it now."

…..

The lifelong spy was glad to get back in the thick of it, as he was driven to the embassy from the airport. Three months and he'd be back stateside full time, with no more secrets and lies to blacken his soul. Joel had joked that they were now a dysfunctional modern family to a psychologically damaged young man. The ghost of that sarcastic annoying and talented boy now lived in Georgetown: agoraphobic and sleep deprived, except on the few occasions his night terrors had driven him downstairs into the old guy's room. His own insomnia and excellent hearing made him aware of when Joel had sung to the kid to get him calm and been allowed to hug him back from the memories Alex hated recalling. Two years, Joel had started as a rough estimate on the intense one to one sessions; even with him receiving excellent back up from a group of eminent psychologists and psychiatrists. A case that would never make it to the medical journals or a popular book.

The senior agent walked into the briefing room, to catch up on all he had missed and Suleiman frowned "You look terrible, Joe. Have you been ill?"

Joe wanted to deny the stress of doing the right thing, he got up and poured himself a coffee, leisurely stirring in two sugars. He sighed and repeated the agreed legend, as Troy and Turner had died in legend as the Gardiner family, the diving accident fully investigated by the Cuban authorities and Alexei Sarov on file as 'abducting' their son. "Back in 1987, I became godfather to a friend's kid. We… we lost touch after Dee and I had our irreconcilable differences. You know how it is. This job and they moved to California. Bel and Tom died in 2001 and their son disappeared. I had a low level search on the system, got a hit in Berlin of all places and got emergency leave. He'd been traded from one sick fuck to another after falling through the cracks in the system. So, Alexander now goes by the name Sasha and Joel is helping to look after him. He was great kid, into karate and soccer, cheeky and smart. So, alienated and abused and needing serious head shrinking, catching up on missing high school and me taking my pension and spoiling him rotten for the rest of my days on Earth. Fuck it Sol! I was meant to be there and I dropped the ball because 2001 was the worst, considering we were trying track down three shipments of fissile material in terrorist hands. We save thousands, millions maybe; but lost one kid on the way. My attempt at finding a life balance sucks. Lets get back to work. I am crossing off the days on my calendar and you have to take up the slack."

….

Edward carefully planned his operation to share the bad good news with Liz, in the best tradition of spying, in a very crowded and loud restaurant. The local Italian served all of his wife's forbidden favourites as she rarely indulged the evils of high calorie heaven. Her menu choices set: deep fried calamari and arancini, cannelloni and tiramisu washed down with prosecco, barolo, amoretto and espresso.

Sipping the first glass of chilled dry bubbly, his wife homed in on this obviously grovelling 'apology' meal. She smiled, almost evilly, as she wanted the truth in case this misdemeanour required more that just a meal to atone, "So, what have you done? Its months until my birthday or our anniversary."

"Darling, do you remember Joe Byrne?"

A scowl marred her beautiful face, "That odious CIA prick who tried to emote grief at us?"

"Yeah, worst dress sense in the world as well out of his standard agent suit and tie combo. I met up with him in Washington. You cannot and I mean you must not betray this secret, I'm pushing it telling you; but the guilt is eating at me." He paused taking in his wife's terse nod of acceptance. His martini was the perfect choice of aperitif, as he took a mouthful of the cold pure alcohol. "The CIA found Alex four weeks ago. He's alive, but…." This time, the pause was for the journalist to reign in his despair as tears threatened; "child traffickers got him. Two years of being passed around, beaten and raped. He found a kind of mother hen in Berlin. A transvestite ex-con took him in. They were lovers, except Alex can't connect to people anymore. He's in therapy. Joel Malone is looking after him 24/7 and will be for the foreseeable future. They brought me in to do a piece to back up their makeshift legend. I'm going to Cuba to tie up loose ends. Alex Rider will remain dead, but Sasha Gardiner will become a family friend. At Christmas, I've booked a lodge in Aspen. I'll invite Jack and we can make new connections, reintegrate Sasha into our lives. The CIA are happy to uphold this version of the truth as MI6's actions made it impossible for Alex just to go home."

Lis stood up abruptly, knocking her glass of fizz onto the floor and making a b-line to the restroom, to have her emotional meltdown in private. Edward drained his glass and picked up the second cocktail drawing that as well. He motioned to order two more. He was going to get very drunk, so would Liz. The pair had a lot of pain to work through before they hashed together a plan of how to break the news to their daughter.

…..

Tom Harris was a driven and self assured, ticking off career goals in his steady programme of self improvement. He had scraped into AFC Harrogate at sixteen: the image of a proper chav, dragged up on a West London Council Estate with poor GCSE results and a need to get away from the neglect at home ASAP. He was an Army poster boy, now in 2 Para and about to undertake Special Forces Selection. It was almost certain he would fail, you made the grade into the SAS on your second or third try. They wanted tenacity, inner drive and only those that would put themselves through that shit and keep going. The Londoner remembered every word his long dead friend had told him about his two weeks in Wales. He missed his best friends something awful, in some twisted way he wondered what happened in hospital, one minute Alex was recovering from a chest wound. Five months later he'd read in the paper MI6's teen spy was missing, presumed dead. Missing, meant Tom was not stupid in thinking that his bestie could still be out there somewhere. Was he a terrorist, assassin or in witness protection? Being on the inside, a counter terrorism specialist, the soldier could make sure no kid suffered again and stop the bad guys out there; already forewarned that evil had a foothold at home as well as abroad.


	5. Chapter 5

Alex wondered on how Joel knew a mob surgeon, one who was willing to do plastic surgery pro gratis, no questions asked. The man ran the clinic from his home in rural Pennsylvania, the basement kitted out with the necessary kit and Joel acting as nurse. The unwritten rule for both parties was ask no questions, tell no lies. The man had given Alex the a ridiculously thorough medical, worried about his chest injury and not placated by the notes from the checkup Joe had made his 'cousin' have with both cardiologist and pulmonologist in DC.

Alex was dressed in scrubs as the doctor gave his assessment "Well, you obviously have liquid luck pumping through your veins, that shot would have killed 99% of people before paramedics scraped you off the sidewalk. The surgeon was an artist, top of the line reconstruction of chest wall and pulmonary artery. I will do the finishing touches on your scars, to disguise that bullet entry and exit wound. The one above your heart, you need a tattoo just over an inch across for a full disguise. I recommend Danny Desocco, Atlantic City, does great work on graft skin; not many can. The guy likes it if you let him choose the design. He has a knack for reading people, got gypsy blood or something. So, tonight, I'm going to have to put you under. I need you completely immobile even though I'd prefer a local with your preexisting health issues. I want you to be calm before we start. Shamrock here states you can get in the zone. Nose, cheeks, chin will be modified a mix of realignment, sculpting and reduction. That means you are going to wake up in pain with a broken nose, two broken cheeks and a lower jaw that feels like the dentist used a sledgehammer on ya. I will be putting a brace on your arm where I'm reducing the scarring under your arm pit, so all this looks like an auto accident for any nosy neighbours. Joel knows the deal on aftercare: dressings, hardcore painkillers and antibiotics. So in an hour we'll start. Get in the zone or whatever you need to be completely zen."

….

Moments after the mask had descended and he had counted back from ten to lose count at six, Alex was aware to the Doc talking to him "Come on, babe. Open your eyes for me. Need to do my post op checks. Good boy. Thats it."

A bright light made Alex recoil as his instinct was to go back to sleep. He then heard "Half an hour, you can take him home. Let him sleep, its the sedation. Just him reacting to the drugs. He might vomit in the car. Be prepared."

….

Alex did not hate the stranger in the mirror as he had expected, now the bandages were off, sutures out and the swelling had subsided. It was as if these subtle changes had separated him from the past. A clean slate promised for him had come true. Joe Byrne and his weird symbiotic relationship with Joel Malone had been the glue sticking this broken man back together. He would never admit it but he was looking forward to Byrne being back in town for a retirement bash tomorrow, not that Alex was going.

His legend was fully out in the open as Edward had already published his detailed exposé on child trafficking, with Alex's detailed accounts as his main, but not only, source of the story of many teenage or younger runaways ending up on the meat market.

Joel was out on the airport run, while the kid was catching up on American history. The door bell rang and he went downstairs to sign for the delivery as neither guy here had guests drop by unannounced. He opened the door to see a petite woman with greying hair, no make-up and a suitcase.

She smiled unsure if she had the right place and queried "Hi? Is Joe in? Joe Byrne?"

"Joel is picking him up from Dulles. Back from Beirut. Come in and wait for him." Alex twigged this was DeeDee, Joe's ex from wayback. As they settled in Joel's kitchen, as there was fresh milk in this fridge. "Tea, coffee or soda? We have coke and sprite."

"Tea would be lovely."

Alex just made up Liptons as he was not about to share his favourite, earl grey. "Joe rents out the attic. I haven't been up there since he went abroad." It would need a clean and airing for guests. Joe didn't care about dirt or stuffiness, said he slept better if it smelt bad.

That had probably been a warning to stop his houseguest cleaning methodically in the middle of the night, disturbing him. Joel just took the cleaning blitzes in his stride, one more control issue to add to the list.

The woman sipped her cup, taken black with no sugar, like Joe on the odd occasions it wasn't coffee. "This is a nice place. Is Joel your dad?"

"Err… no. Special project in the head shrinking department. I'm a fucked up street kid rescued from the gutter. Son of a friend actually, no relation. Is it DeeDee?"

"Oh, right, I'm Delores MacArthur, was Byrne for a while. Divorced Andy as well three years back. Me and Joe kind of made up at his niece's wedding last fall. He invited me to his retirement party. I bet he forgot. He's so disorganised." The woman had looked around, obviously checking it out and observing there were no personal touches about the place, as it was Joel's house, austere and masculine; where Byrne was just an occasional addition. The retired spy was planning to buy a place in Puglia to hide out abroad, his first recon for an isolated house there in the New Year. Plans only slightly delayed by the addition to the household. Alex had to get his shit together first, passing high school, college preferred. Then meet someone, as Joe put it no gender or sexuality bias, over 18 and consensual all the way.

The door opened, Joel entered and smiled as he saw the unexpected guest, "Dee, you look better for ditching Andy."

"You would say that considering he called you a commie." quipped the woman with a rueful smile on her face.

"You're attempt at shocking the kid has failed as he knows all about my anti war activism, which is completely justified when the bastard's in the White House killed my son with so-called friendly fire, then leave Saddam in power. I could start on you cause I told you Andy was not good enough for you, then again I said the same about Joe as well. My Marie would have pitched a fit about you guys breaking up." The host went to the fridge and opened a bottle of wine, pouring out three glasses as Alex shook his head at he gestured offer of joining in. The psychologist then shouted up the stairs " Hey Joe! Get your ass in here and face the love your life." The guy smiled and quipped "I mean you, Dee not you Sasha."

Feeling like an outsider Alex stood and mumbled in Russian, as Joel was fluent from his days at Langley. "Can't help the old guy having piss poor taste and not tapping my ass. I'll let you guys have some space. Call me when food is arriving."

….

In the basement Alex exercised in the small gym area, this space formerly the preserve of Gerard Malone, dead at the age of eighteen in Kuwait in 1991. Three years after Joel lost his wife to an automobile accident, ending his career at spook central and leading to him retraining as a psychologist specialising in trauma and it aftermath. The punch bag took carefully placed hits and kicks, moves he had learned in Cambodia as a street fighter; where the fourteen year old looking like a gormless tourist letting the betting gangs win big. Half the spooks in the known world were attending the retirement party including several from London and Russia. People who knew or knew of Alex Rider. He looked at the small window providing natural light from the yard. He could run, but where? It was nice being here, like a kid, getting meals three times a day and getting help studying. Joel like the dad he had never had, filling the role far better than Ian ever had. Over and over, kick, punch, kick, until his vision filled with spots. Breathing hard he collapsed on the floor, staring at the ceiling. For three months he had been indoors, hiding and afraid. He suddenly felt like a freak, trapped and alone, his skin crawling with he need to run.

….

Joe went to call Alex for dinner, having missed him earlier, though he wasn't in the basement, bathroom, den or his room. He went back to the kitchen and remembered his promise to himself, not to chase Alex if he ran. He sat and picked up a slice of pizza.

Joel asked "Is Alex sulking?"

Joe shrugged, deciding to be cool and not a mother hen about this; "No, he's gone out. About time he got over his agoraphobia phase. I bet 20 dollars he'll be back for breakfast. Another fifty that he'll have gotten laid. He's been sexually active since he was 14. Three months celebrate is practically forever to a kid his age."


	6. Chapter 6

Alex wandered east on the grid system of streets towards the White House. At a sports bar he stopped and looked in. At three years over the legal drinking age in Berlin, he had never been in a bar or on a date. Sure he could blow like a pro, but his sexual partners had all been older men, most of them of the nonconsensual variety as there had been some form of coercion in the mix. He had little actual interaction with people his own age apart from orders taken as the blank faced waiter, who offered no chat, just efficiency as he had perfect memory for details and faces. For four years, the lights had been on but there had been no one home. Only, Mimi had seen beyond the mask to the scared kid, with night terrors and hungry for her version of intimacy as two lonely broken people shared the same space. He missed her and her life of strict routine to avert her own phobias and control issues. She had understood him because she also had suffered at such a young age and empathised that running was better than fighting sometimes and often neither helped, you just endured.

The blond young man sat on the concrete and tried to calm himself, the therapy had made all his past hurts fresh, all those lingering emotional wounds raw. After years of bottling up everything, tears came so easy, with no heed to the passing strangers he wept. He noticed a group of well dressed guys had stopped around him, shoes shinned within an inch of mirror perfection, pressed trousers and positioned like a protective bubble.

"Iraq or Afghanistan?" queried a deep gruff voice in a mid-western accent.

Alex laughed, "Yeah and the rest, none of it on the books. You know the 'fuck up and you're on your own' type of op direct from spook central." He then knew why they'd stopped, he was wearing Joel's hand me down army issue fatigues, well worn and dirty. "I'm not AWOL. Very much burned so to speak. Thank you for your service, but I'm fine."

"Need a drink, kid?" offered another.

The moment over, Alex looked up, sure he looked an absolute state. Surrounding him were five be-medaled Korean war veterans, all old and wrinkly former paratroopers. "Sure, I'm thirsty and hungry, but I've got no money. Not fair on you guys buying and me not reciprocating. Got no tales to tell, none of it officially happened. Though I'm sure glad I never have to go back to Fallujah, Murmansk or Cayo Esqueleto." Alex did not add he was still technically underage, even if his legend stated his majority passed on September 13th.

…..

Alex woke to a darkened hotel room, having slept on the floor for over seven hours, one of the guys had kindly put a blanket over him. Relaxed because their easy acceptance, the young ex-spy had been lulled into deep dreamless sleep as they had played poker. Mitch and Dwight were snoring in their twin beds. It was still dark outside. It had been an evening and a half, drinking shared pitchers of beer, washing down plates of chicken wings, ribs and home fries that seemed to keep coming. Each man sharing tales of the camaraderie and horrors from over half a century ago, not caring that the young man just nodded in agreement and laughed along with the blackest of army humour. Their mental wounds still hurting after all that time, but they had endured, married, raised families, lost love ones, found acceptance in this rapidly reducing group of veterans, once over thirty in number that kept in touch over the years.

The young adopted veteran was aware that he stank, but decided he would shower back at Joel's place. Overnight, the place in Georgetown, several thousand miles from Chelsea had become his home. During dinner Mitch had offered him room and board back at his farm in Kansas. Genuine and without any nasty overtones, Alex grimaced at the folly why could he not have met these guys six years ago, but this was the road he had travelled. He would endure Joel and his questions, which would get him living an approximation of normal, enough to fit in. It was a bit like Ian's games during holidays but in reverse, from isolated ex-spy with PTSD to kid ready for college. At the moment he was well aware he was a sort of POW in need of reintegrating back into the world, so the idea of a normal life of independence, intimacy and dating did not induce pure terror.

…

The Harris brothers had grown apart, not surprising as Jerry had left in 1998 and had thought Italy was the perfect distance away from their parents to regain for his sanity. Tom had bummed around shelters or with friends during his brief periods of leave until the Sergeant at Harrogate had twigged on that the young cadet was not going back to his parent's house ever. He had then been awarded emergency accommodation, shared with another single instructor until he had gained a Housing Association Place in Battersea last year. He had sub-let his spare bedroom to a medical student, which paid the bills and kept the place occupied while he was off on rotation. He was on leave ahead of the transfer to Credenhill, when there was an unexpected guest banging on his door, he had disconnected the doorbell to get uninterrupted rest. Tom answered his door to see his tall, tanned and handsome brother stood with rucksack and two bags of ski equipment. "Don't you read emails any more, squirt?" huffed Jerry Harris. "I'm only stopping the night, I have two tickets for Colorado, room and board free. Are you coming or not? Cause James Hale said he'd drop his family Christmas for a free ski holiday with perfect powder guaranteed."

The young soldier was still half asleep from his five hour long afternoon nap after arriving back at 11 from Brize Norton, so it took a moment for him to digest all the info in his brother's rant. "What? You know I had problems with my email out in Basra. I've only got as far as October in my urgent list, never mind catching up with your epic tales of how great your life is. Sorry, but its been stressful after two friends died and another three are missing parts of their anatomy." He then moved so his brother and his kit could squeeze past. "Good to see you. So, yeah, I need a holiday. I just have to tell Sam and get packed. Skiing sounds good. We can catch up. How many girlfriends have you had this season?"

"One. Emilia is still out in Italy. She's the snowboarder I started dating last year. You met her in April remember, when we announced our engagement. Mum hates her for corrupting me. Did you miss that argument? Best one ever, as dearest Ems is not inviting those shits to our wedding. Could not have played out better if I'd scripted it."

Tom had already left the party before the arrival of their parents with Jo from school and had been at her place ignoring his mother's million messages. "You know I prefer IED's to mum and dad. She seemed nice, normal. So, what the fuck does she see in you, I'll never guess."

….

Liz finalised meal planning and was awaiting her huge food order being delivered. Catering for nine would be the largest Christmas feast for several years. She believed in simple cook ahead suppers, lunches of sandwiches from leftovers and interspaced takeouts so no one got sick of turkey and ham. She looked at the clock. Seven hours before Sabina arrived. They had not told her about Alex yet. Liz had insisted on waiting as Alex had been cold and aloof during their brief telephone conversations. Joel had insisted his patient needed to rebuild connections and expand people he could trust. Her daughter would be told ahead of Jack Starbright, Tom and Jerry Harris as they needed to be onboard one hundred per cent before Alex, Joe and Joel arrived.


	7. Chapter 7

Sabina was tidying her flat in Clapham for the fifteenth time, moving cushions and magazines to make the small space appear perfect. The fact bought for her by her father as a graduation present as he had made a mint out of the Cray business, and was still earning pots of money lecturing about it all. At three she left to get the tube to St Pancras, Sasha had arrived three weeks before the wedding to hang out and chill. He had been in Italy with Joe and Joel setting up their new home in rural Puglia. It had been an epic train journey, but her friend hated planes and airports. Funnily she had found it easy to connect with Sasha as a new friend, with her brief friendship as a teenager with Alex was consigned to the past. He was different, more open, brutally honest at times, with no glossing over the fact he was a survivor of sexual exploitation. In the past six months, they had corresponded daily, as Sasha had been given a phone and a laptop for Christmas. She was close to both Harris boys as well. She had gone from complete stranger to one of Jerry's ushers, as he insisted on a non-gender specific wedding. The stag-do was booked in two weeks as a full pub-crawl in Chelsea with a pie and mash supper.

After a hot and crowded jaunt on the tube, Sabina waited on the main concourse to see Sasha arrive wearing ripped vintage jeans, a Moshino t-shirt and several bracelets looking like a model except for the army duffel on his shoulder. His choppy haircut showing off its natural curl, his skin a golden brown and hair lightened after a month in the sun.

The bag was placed on the concrete and Alex hugged the BFF, "Caio Darling, Sightseeing or a Late Lunch?"

"Lunch at my favourite Italian. Lets get a taxi as the tube was awful on the way here."

…

MI5 kept a close eye on all known foreign intelligence operatives in the UK and two had just arrived at London Gatwick. The flag on the computer system at passport control sent an alert about Joel Malone a former counter intelligence specialist and Joe Byrne, retired Deputy Director of Covert Operations. The agent tagged with their follow up sighed, as the contact report stated they were in the UK for a friend's wedding, like spooks made friends. He then did his homework and dutifully scanned over the file on these ex-CIA officers. Dr. Malone was no longer on the FBI watch list, but remained an outspoken critic of US foreign policy post 9/11. The pair had the same residential addresses in the US and in Italy. A third person was named at the US address, Alexander Thomas Gardiner, aged 21. His passport was fairly new, one exit point noted from Berlin last October with Byrne. Gardiner had a three month visitor's visa for Italy and had entered the UK two and a half weeks ago. The MI5 operative almost dismissed the twenty-one year old as too young to be an agent, then remembered about the cases in the press about two teenagers dying in 2001. Nothing else was on the system about Gardiner, the residence listed on his visa waiver entry form was in Clapham, home of Sabina Pleasure, 22. Should he assume girlfriend? With nothing more to go on, he saw no reason to waste manpower on a couple of ex-CIA guys on holiday.

…..

Joe was a man who liked to amuse himself. MI6 Special Operations now had the cover of a high end fine art insurance company with branches across the globe, Dynastic Insurance and Shipping was registered in Hong Kong of all places. They shipped and insured items for the unaware, very efficiently with a really good rating on their website and social media feed. He went into the reception area of the office in Bow and asked for a brochure. The guy knew he dressed like a tourist, in loud Hawaiian shirt, baseball cap and baggy short combo. He smiled to himself as Tulip Jones approached from the rear office area.

The woman still had an brutal haircut, too severe for her bone structure and smell of mints, "A pleasant surprise, Joe. Please lets discuss the joys of retirement in my office."

"Sure has been a change of pace, but Joel and I are just chilling." The guy then switched off his chilled persona after tea had been brought in. "What's the news on Cossack and Three these days? You know I spent the last four years playing in the Sandbox"

"Our agent in place says they are happy to keep their business dealings in Russia and the Far East. What's your interest?"

"Personal. I want to make sure I and they don't cross paths anytime soon. They don't forgive or forget and we kind of stamped on them hard after the business in Australia."

The Head of Special Operations, picked up a peppermint and unwrapped the sweetie. "Its been a long time to still be sore over unforeseen losses, Joe. You're too much of a realist to become a vigilante."

"I try to keep a balanced outlook. You should be more worried about Blunt. Cossack is one psycho I'd rather not have to look out for, but if he's happy causing chaos abroad thats fine and dandy for us all." He drained his tea wishing it had been chilled not this tar like luke warm brew and pondered how much of a carrot did he have to dangle in front of this woman. "So, how about we keep the special relationship special. Dinner tonight with Joel and me at the Savoy. That guy likes his steak and they do a mean one there."

"Lovely, its been a while since I let my hair down. About 8 wasn't it ?"

Joe's face split into a full shit-eating grin, "Nice to know you keep tabs on us old guys, Tulip. Have a guy following us or just listening to us old women complain that you can't get a decent cup of coffee for less than four dollars a pop."

….

Sasha Gardiner was out and proud, a fact Sabina adored as she had tried to matchmake with all her single gay friends, including friends of friends or any guy who had not asked her out, because that in her eyes that made them gay. At Christmas, Tom Harris had hit on her constantly and took her serial refusals as playing hard to get. Alex pulled on the Paul Smith suit Sabina had found thrift shopping. That girl could spot a star buy at fifteen paces. Tonight was show and tell, not a date. He chose to dress impeccably with the slim fit linen hugging his lanky frame. The mantra now was controlling all connections to the past, a certain transparency was needed to move forward and resolve issues from his alter ego's past. For his new identity to stick, he had wield a stick to get those who owed him to pay up with their compliance. The CIA was on board 110%, now he had to manoeuvre Tulip Jones into this conspiracy.

In 2002, Tulip Jones had used his disappearance to effectively outmanoeuvred Blunt, to take control of the new face of Special Operations as he took the fall for child endangerment.

The Head of British Dirty Ops, arrived with her driver and her personal security, both stayed in the hotel lobby, as the restaurant on full surveillance. No threats, no known operatives, even Byrne and Malone were absent. She followed the maitre'd to the table where a blond haired young man was seated. She initially assumed she was at the wrong table, but the place was full, no other tables empty. The American spoke to her as if they were familiar, "Hello, Mrs. Jones. Its been a while, but Joe and Joel are at the theatre tonight. They double booked so I'm here to entertain you. I'm Sasha Gardiner."

The man was familiar in a way. His American accent had a slight Californian inflection. He was far too young to be a current operative, yet the name Gardiner was familiar from several years ago. Her dinner companion then smiled as he sipped his glass of water. She knew that smile, in shock she blurted out "Alex?"

"I prefer Sasha. My pimp in Berlin called me it and its stuck. Your Alex is dead and shark food in the Pacific. The NSA's face recognition prototype picked me up. The CIA collected me, said sorry for fucking up, handed me the passport I'd used to travel to Cuba with my 'parents', Joel took me to a mob surgeon and now NSA computer software causes no matches. That doctor did an excellent jon as I don't mind looking in the mirror and seeing a failure anymore. Joel says I have to work on that disassociation, but I'm way more sane than I was in October." Alex then looked at the menu. "I see why Joe said I'd hate here. The vegetarian options suck."


	8. Chapter 8

The conversation ebbed and flowed, the Head of MI6 Special Operations was aware that this meal was not a practical joke by Joe Byrne, but part of a structured plan to get Sasha to confront and rationalise his paranoia. She was also well aware that this was not just PTSD. On the journey from Alex Rider to Sasha Gardiner, the teenager had been broken along the way. The snippets of wit and sarcasm were there, but in the mix were control issues and the fact Joel Malone was acting as the main caregiver. The facade before her was a functioning human being, but there were traces of a personality disorder that she could pick out. She and Alan had done their part in this travesty. Now, she was being included in the long road back to some kind of normal. Twenty years ago she had promised Ian Rider to look out for Alex if anything happened to him when he joined the Royal and General Bank. Then she had been a young mother herself. Now, she was a survivor of horrors like Alex, both of them had lost everyone close to them.

Normally she avoided dessert, but today she ate the lemon tart as Alex ate his cheese board. "Are you aware, your old friend Tom has joined the SAS?"

"He a deluded fool who thinks he's saving the world. Poor sod does not realise the world or at least humanity does not deserve saving. To think I've met scum worse than the Grief's. So, Joe said you had a spot of bother with Julie-baby."

"Yes, Alan thought he could be useful at some point, but he died in custody after a dispute with a fellow prisoner." The prisoner in question had gone on to kill several board members at SCORPIA and was now rumoured to be running the their new base in Vietnam. "So, are you considering college?"

"Nah, finishing high school sucked enough. Not going to Italy with Joe either. Sitting in Puglia watching that man write his memoirs is too much like watching the grass grow. Joel says I can stay with him, like long term. Its good enough. Though the old man says I have to connect with people my own age. Might get a job in Starbucks or something." Alex drank the last of his coffee. "Can I walk you home?"

"No, I think I better if I escort you back? At the hotel with Messrs Byrne and Malone?"

In his Americian drawl, Alex joked "The hotel think the old guys are a pair of queens and I'm their adopted son. They do act up to that end, bickering and all their in jokes. Both of them mother me something awful. They are so cute together, even though they're not together together. If you'd told me a life in spying ended like this, I might not have been so against Blunt's blackmail." The true face of Sasha Gardiner returned, a cold emotionless mask, he was now righteously vindictive, "all that was Alex Rider, the teenage hero, died because of you and your inactions. Your passive silence about the abuse and blackmail, led me to become the beast SCORPIA failed to turn me into. Joel is aware that Sasha is a construct, the reality is a cold emotionless killer. A viper surviving because I killed those that tried to control me. Berlin, at fifteen, I was the tool of Reichmann and his thugs. Their pet killer, torturer, seducer and their downfall. I was ordered to make an example of lovely, kind and misused Mimi. She did not deserve what they planned for her, all because she had tried to help three teenage boys escape their pimps. Three young Russian kids who only wanted the dream life of family and home promised in the adverts and movies. The pimps had already raped those kids brutally into compliance. They betrayed their chance at freedom. I hate bullies, rapists and liars. Most of all I hate two faced bastards like Blunt and Reichman, both of them cut from the same cloth. Power corrupts Tulip. It was like my eyes were opened as those cunts expected me to entertain them with their prisoner's screams. I'd already proven I could maim in exact compliance with Dr. Three's thesis on the management and infliction of agony. In four minutes I executed twenty shitheads, except Reichman. I just paralysed him. I then killed all his pimps and enforcers, his entire operation wiped from the earth. Three glorious days bathed in blood. I returned to Mimi nursing the man who had ordered her death. I handed her a gun to put a bullet in my brain, she chose to put the gangster out of his misery. Then she took me to her home, bathed, clothed, fed and put me to bed and sang me to sleep. She tried to mother me. She became my moon and stars. I… was too damaged, but she accepted that I needed more than love. That former whore is more a woman than you'll ever be." Alex stood and put four crisp fifty pound notes on the bill. "Don't call, don't enquire about me. Joel has done as much as he can to fix the unfixable. I know what I am and the CIA do to. I'm their little puppy of death and destruction now. You burned everything that was Alex Rider from official records, Joel gave me a new face. Enjoy watching what you created. I'm sure if Ian or my parent's still drew breath, they'd be ecstatic. Hasta la vista."

The big fat lie was that the CIA would not touch him with a bargepole. Tulip Jones would without a shadow of a doubt, but she knew Alex would rather garrotte her than dance to her tune. She probably thought Joel had implanted enough programming to keep him an assassin when the opposite was true. Alex was well aware of his alters, the damage and what was needed to keep calm and safe. The best reverse psychology was to play into the Bank's low moral standards, i.e. no morals at all.

The twenty-one year old burned ex-spy walked back to Clapham, not to the three star hotel in Southwark. Joe and Joel had an action plan, Alex was going to bum around after they activated a support network. At fourteen, Alex Rider had saved the lives of eight teenagers, all rich, influential and extremely grateful to escape Grief's imprisonment. These teenagers were all adults and in a position to pay their debts and keep their hero safe.

…

Joe Canterbury was home for a few weeks before his final year at college in California. It looked like his friend Cassian had gotten forgotten about visiting, but the guy had the worst memory ever. As usual his parents were busy, so he was bored with a capital B. The bar nearest his parent's house was full of tourist's so he walked two blocks over to the run down sports bar, not expecting to see any familiar faces. The barman was tall blond and familiar looking. "Hey! Were you at Washington International School?"

"No. Homeschooled after an incident with the headmaster and a helicopter."

The son of a former senator and retired general considered the stranger and whispered "Alex Friend?"

The barman smiled and held out his hand "Sasha Gardiner. I get off at 11. Just filling in for Sean. Want to go for a coffee later to catch up?"

…..

Paul Roscoe had seen the Most Urgent email sent by Joe Canterbury. The guy was now Facetiming him, it was 1AM on a work night. He had a meeting at 8. Like a fool he answered his insomniac friend.

"About time loser. As the Alumni Chairman, Secretary and Funding Manager, you are the first to know I've got hold of our missing classmate."

"Joe, Alex is dead. You were the one to hack the CIA to get that info in the first place. Can I go to sleep now."

Another guy laughed in the background then said "Yeah, you hacked the wrong CIA. Covert Operations does not have files on the system at Langley. Alex Friend never existed anyway and MI6 erased all records concerning Alex Rider. Sasha Gardiner exists officially enough not to get any alerts on the system. You guys just don't think spooky enough."

The voice was deep, perfect American accent. "If this is a joke its in very poor taste, Canterbury."

"No joke, I was there when that bitch from the US Embassy told you your dad died in a lift accident. I told you that smell like a whopping great lie and that the orphans club sucked. I also said the best revenge against Grief was to live a long happy life, enjoying every day like it was your last. How is that bucket list? I told you number one of eating chocolate and walnut cookies for breakfast everyday would get old real fast."

"Like fuck it did. I get two delivered every day to my office, that and a triple espresso. My bitch of a grandmother never complied with my wishes and neither did school. Four years and counting since I left home and its still routine."

The stranger then scolded "Fuck it Roscoe, routine gets you killed."

"Now I know its you, Spooky. Where the fuck have you been? No leave it. I'll be in DC for breakfast. I just have to call in sick with flu or measles."


	9. Chapter 9

The photographer in DC was staking out the recently opened Roscoe Group Hotel Resort, snapping arrivals when the actual owner, 23 year old Paul Roscoe, turned up. The wunderkind was meant to be culling the defunct Roscoe Communications in New York, yet here he was with his long time best friend, the son of General and Senator Canterbury and another young man, who the recorder of the A to Z celebrities and movers and shakers did not recognise. Three photos of them arriving were uploaded and made their way onto the gossip pages.

Two hours later and on the other side of the World, the current Director of Operations for SCORPIA took a break from the hard toil laundering blood money to check the alerts on his computer system, tracking on all known associates of Alex Rider. He knew from the boasting of the Grief clone, during his recovery from Cray's bullet, all about the children of the rich, influential and famous who had been at the school in the Alps. All free and unharmed because of Little Alex. On screen was two young men, there body language open, happy relaxed accompanied by a tall, blond. The assassin leaned in closer to the screen enlarging the image to see all the details of that face. A smile crossed the face of the man, who had been an emotionless efficient assassin and had evolved into a ruthlessly efficient boss. Even the financial and administration tasks were stimulating for a man who slept little.

Cossack sat back, Hunter had taught him to rely on his instincts and from the photos taken in DC today, he guessed the man accompanying two school friends to lunch was Alex Rider. Or had been, MI6 had burned their teen spy from the official records as efficiently as the KGB had erased everyone in Estrov. From the photos, Alex's facial structure had changed, he was no longer the image of Hunter. The Russian had also visited a plastic surgeon after his run in with MI6. John's son looked more like his mother now, the more masculine characteristics of his father, the hard angular nose, chin and cheek bones, had been softened by medical manipulation.

He recalled that awful day, when his interrogator gossiped with guards about the fiery end of John's son on Arkangel as a joke. Three hours later he had beaten the clone to death after listening to the fake boast about his non existent superiority by the mere fact of his continued existence. His loss of control had played into his hands, as the assassin had escaped after being transferred from the secret prison to a more suitable location for an unstable psychotic. Five months after barely surviving a bullet to the chest, he had a new goal: revenge. He was already the most formidable killer trained at Malagosto, seemingly completely loyal to SCORPIA. He returned to his former masters and learned of the schemes of Rothman, Wu and Kursk. Little Alex had been a pawn to Julia's revenge plot, but he had triumphed. Kursk had ordered the teenager's assassination after taking over the chairmanship. Since his capture, there had been two coups for power, the blood bath was not over as Yassen with the delicious precision of his teachers, Dr Three and Hunter, tortured Kursk to death. Then targeted the recent nominations to the boards, slaughtering Razim and the Grimaldis. Wu made his play, but the Triad boss had no allies after the failure at Dragon Nine and the capture of his Australian puppet. One blow to the head had dispatched that weak, feeble old man. Dr Three had then offered him promotion to operations director, as the interrogation specialist was more interested in research than administration. Russian assassin who had killed his way onto the Board of SCORPIA

The world had changed, the school raided in October, operations in disarray after the failure Wu's bomb plot. Chase had been imprisoned for life by the Australians and was under SAS guard on a crocodile infested island a thousand miles from civilisation. The key to SCORPIA's future was to be freelance, balancing the fine line of black operations, criminal certainly; yet avoiding being branded outright as terrorists. No grand overtures at mass murder by trading in or using weapons of mass destruction. For six years he had steering the helm of this sleeker, no less profitable and highly skilled organisation for freelance espionage, assassination and trade for discerning businessmen and governments wanting complete deniability for black ops.

The lithe blond was still feared by all here at their chosen base of operations far from First World scrutiny. Trained spies, killers and interrogators avoided eye contact at all costs. He missed the bravado and fearless wit of John's son. He now reread the article by Edward Pleasure on child trafficking and sexual exploitation. Then he went to their files, recollecting that five years ago such seedy undertakings in Berlin had been taken over by a Russian affiliate, who had paid for SCORPIA's backup to secure his monopoly. The few remaining operatives from Malagosto had been used and he reread their report on an unknown operative only known as 'Sasha' who had liquidated the previous crime boss and his subordinates with brutal efficiency. The conclusions were this teenager had been trained to be ruthlessly efficient from a young age, either by the Russians or Mossad. The cull was taught in their current classes as the height of efficient liquidation of multiple targets in a short space of time reflecting meticulously planning and with excellent inside intelligence.

From a Soyuz capsule burning up over the Pacific, to Berlin and now the capital of the United States. The survival of Alex must rival his own journey as a young man from rural isolation on the Russian steppes to slave, then assassin. Hunter has understood Cossack, helped fashion the survivor into a weapon. Here, Alex was no longer hiding. The CIA must be aware of his past. If this was witness protection, the former child spy was obviously not playing by the rules. Here he was happy to contact old friends, then again they were very well connected friends who owed him their lives. That billionaire would be the perfect ally to prevent becoming a pawn of several intelligence agencies as an adult. The CIA would be aware of this honed weapon in their midst, as Berlin proved.

As Director of Operations, Cossack started to collate a short report. He would not act rashly, but seek the advice of Dr Three, once he had confirmation this was the child spy. The old man had been tempered from fires of revenge to become a cold clinical expert in his chosen field of manipulating terror. The world renown psychologist would be able to understand the fractured Psychology of this survivor. Even from the bare facts, Cossack needed to know if Alex was better left rather than poke a hornet's nest. All of SCORPIAs encounters with Rider had ended badly. Alone of the old board of SCORPIA's directors, the old man had championed the child spy to their cause, he had wanted to woo Alex as a potential successor. After the demise of Grendell, the others refused the doctor's council, dismissing him as a has been. That act had made them no longer equals in the man's eyes but failures, not worth saving.

The Russian was meant to be a cold sociopath with no emotional connections, but he felt guilt for his part of introducing Hunter's son to SCORPIA. He had learned from the files of Dr Steiner kept by the Countess how Rothman had only wanted revenge against for her personal betrayal by Hunter. The bitch had planned that his first assignment would be a failure, ensuring his capture by MI6.

First, he called up one of three people who had close contact with the former Malagosto student, who had a nasty habit of 'accidentally' liquidating witnesses. Three operatives along with the Countess had escaped capture on the day Malagosto had been raided. Walker, Ross and Ms Bennang had teamed up to hide, then evade. All three preferring death over returning to their former employer's. The email sent to Walker was to undertake a contact report. He had studied with Alex and would provide proof if this was a lookalike or their quarry. Underlined was the direct order 'not to engage and to remain unnoticed'. Alex was a flight risk and Cossack wanted to know where he was. The final line was to 'If the subject is Rider, stay in post, report all contacts when safe to do so. Usual fee plus Hazard expenses rates. Answer only to me.'


	10. Chapter 10

After over a year in Joel's expert care, Alex was well aware of his sociopathic tendencies. One on many things to damn his uncle to eternal damnation in the pseudo-parent's mind. Life post Ian had given the former spy the gift of paranoia. Damn it, why was Joel in Italy when he was having a meltdown. None of his three fellow employees at Starbucks at the base of Roscoe Tower were aware of his problem, then again none were aware he was living in the penthouse with the owner of this building. They thought his boyfriend Paul was just another nameless intern, not the big tamale himself. Then again Paul liked his anonymity and had paid to remove all paparazzi photos from circulation. Some snuck through, but never to the big circulation websites or tabloids. Alex was again clearing tables just to sneak glances over the street outside. The shadow had moved again. The guy was good, but not good enough.

Odds on favourite was the creep was keeping tags on him for the CIA, yet Alex knew this guy. Nuisances that harked back to Malagosto, from that short list of possibilities the barista knew it was his old class mate, Walker. Had the ex-CIA operative gone back to work at Langley? His gut told him no way. That spook turned killer for hire had genuinely hated the Farm. Someone was paying good money for a freelance operative to do a contact report on him. Which probably meant the bad guys, then again his own history had taught him there were no good guys. Burned and having to rely on a bogus CIA legend. He was one step away from being a true ghost. Alex then noted the arrival of Mrs van Riel, Paul's dragon of a grandmother. The billionaires's mother had been a genuine blue blood Manhattan wasp disowned for daring to marry the blue collar bad boy who had actually built his own electronics and communications empire. She had died when Paul was eleven, he did not meet his grandmother until his father's funeral.

Alex went and got the tea ready in the china cup and saucer, all bought just in case she turned up at his work to deliver the fuck off back to Hicksville speech. This could be perfectly timed for him to run to ground. Paul knew appearances were everything and by taking up with a former rent boy he was breaking every rule in the book. His boss looked on as the Chanel suited, perfectly coiffured old sixty year old sat down awaiting waiter service.

The earl grey was brewed to Alex's own taste with just a splash of skimmed milk. He had taken enough stick from Paul, who had bemoaned his lover drinking the same beverage of choice as his dearest grandmama. The porcelain cup and saucer were placed silver service style to the left of the seated patron. Her Hermes Birkin bag placed by her chair cost more than the annual disposable income of all three employees together.

The bitch took a sip of tea and ever so slightly relaxed. Without the niceties of introductions, she had known just who he was. Then again, he was wearing a name badge saying 'Sasha'. Alex wondered what version of the truth this woman's private eye had dug up. There was no way in hell Paul had told her anything near the actual reality. Even Joe had thought it hilarious to introduce their hero to his parents as just Paul's boyfriend. It had been easy to cohabit, the familiarity of two caged tigers sharing the same place. Paul was acutely paranoid as well. The pair would have been a good fit together, if fate had allowed them to cohabit, to fall in love. Joel had been ecstatic about them dating; slightly less so about Alex moving to New York to cohabit.

"Please sit, Mr. Gardiner. Though I doubt that is your real name."

Right off bat, the wasp queen of mean was playing hard ball. Alex had no reason to lie and preferred the cold brutality of the truth. "I doubt your sleuth came up with much. I attended the fine upstanding boarding school Point Blanc Academy with Paul, when my name was Alex Friend, the supposed wayward son of Sir David Friend. Placed there to smoke out a Grief and his abominable clones by the cunt faced bastard Alan Blunt. I saved Paul's life and the lives of seven other boys." Alex could see whatever she expected it was not that. "The next month I was Alex Gardiner, son of Belinda and Tom. The operation in Cuba went south pretty fast. The two spooks posing as my parents were murdered. I survived. The good thing about that operation was the CIA gave me a legend and a passport. Several fuck ups later Blunt wiped me from history. The CIA found me eighteen months ago doing this in Berlin, waiting tables. Too old now to be passed around as a dancing monkey. My inheritance pissed away by cousins I never met. I have been a working boy, but between fourteen and seventeen I had no other choice other than that to survive."

The woman quickly composed herself from the shock of disclosure. "You saved Paul? Why continue to hide? Surely you are a national hero?"

"If I made it known I was alive, I doubt I would remain breathing for long. This is as close to witness protection I'll get. Being with Paul means the CIA won't come around and demand favours now I'm no longer considered a basket case. I'd rather die than have to dance to their tune again. I was rather good at the blackest of black ops. A teenager trained from birth. The strange reality is I have more respect for my pimps than any of those cunts working at Langley or for Her Majesty." He could see steel in the woman's striking blue eyes, the same shade as Paul's.

There was a soft cough as the scripted speech started "Rumours have not yet started about Paul, but..."

With that dramatic pause, Alex butted in; "its ok, I'll go pack my stuff now. By end of play today I'll be in another state, probably New Jersey for a guess, but for that you get to tell lover boy a personal dear John. You have to take the fall for me disappearing because you came to ask me to do just that." They had been together for five weeks, more as a massive practical joke, but it had actually played up to the fact Joe knew Paul had carried a torch for the spy boy since 2001.

...

The alumni Point Blanc Academy Class of 2001 had all been shaped by their experiences, not how their parents wanted or anticipated considering the fall out, but each was committed to living life to the full. Their undisputed leader was Paul Roscoe. The only child of billionaire Michael Roscoe was not settling for blowing his inheritance, loss meant he was driven to build on his father's legacy. Already with a doctorate in Robotics and ruthless enough to relish the directorship of the ailing Communications Division. Joe was more a freelance programmer than prt time student, so the pair were as close as brothers.

The Porsche 911, a graduation gift from his grandmother, sped from Manhattan to DC in the middle of the night. The drive did not stop Paul working. He had arranged a video conference call before he departed, to keep his hand in while in DC. He did not trust any of his team yet. Most were too busy protecting their office space or out to get their immediate boss and not thinking about the future of their chosen field of expertise. Paul knew these phones, were more than that. Full integration of the ultimate portable device with fully flexible software and data storage. He was investing in servers just for the communications market. Stop production of their outdated and loss making units, but become integral by providing services for all the networks including their competitors. They had the satellites, the computer hardware tech and the reach to globalise software.

Janice Canterbury went down for breakfast at 7, to find her son up or more likely still awake from yesterday eating Froot Loops and entertaining his best friend, who had a job in Manhattan. The pair were joined by a blond stranger. "Good Morning Joe, Paul. Is this a friend from college?"

Joe grinned and then blithely side stepped letting the cat out of the bag, while practicing Alex's method of hiding lies by using some truth, "Nah, Kindergarten. This loser moved to California in third grade." Another Alex had moved, then. "Mom, this is Sasha Gardiner. He has had three stepdads since he left here."

"Lovely to meet you, Sasha. So, why is Paul here?"

Paul then tried to keep a straight face, as Joe went with their agreed smoke screen, "Sasha is Paul's boyfriend. After keeping it in the closet for eons, both guys are out and proud. Paul is here to beg lover boy come and cohabit with him."

...

Alex worked until the end of his shift at 4. Packing took 10 minutes then he left without looking back. He phone, driving licence and passport left on the hall table. He had things to do and first on the list was finding out why Walker was tailing him. The hunter was about to become the hunted. The alias Sasha Gardiner was left in that apartment, Alex Rider stepped out into the dusk leaving the security of Paul's offer of home as long as he need or wanted to be there behind.


	11. Chapter 11

Something was up, Rider had not turned up for his shift making offensively substandard and expensive coffee two days in a row. Was there trouble in paradise? Or had he thrown in the towel with the pretence of any financial independence to be a proper kept man with his billionaire lover. Only Rider would have the luck to escape his CIA minders by fucking or more likely getting fucked by one of the top ten richest men in the US. Unlike the others on the rich list, this was no ancient sugar daddy, but a school friend. Walker walked across the street and brushed past two hobos haggling over the best spot for begging on the sidewalk.

Settling into another observation spot, hidden in the shadows, but with a clear view of Starbucks and the main entrance into Roscoe Tower. Easier for him that both Roscoe and Rider always walked for their dates, never the same place, ever or at the same time, but within a five block radius of their penthouse. Today's hours were wasted as the pair stayed home, enjoying the high life, high above in the penthouse. Roscoe had gone to visit his grandmother yesterday morning, taking a car for once, but that was the last time either mark had been out.

The evening deepened at rush hour and the watcher's thoughts strayed to Rider at Malagosto. Younger by most of his classmates by over a decade, lighter, smaller and with a mere six months field experience, he had kept up with the sadist Yermalov, delighted the Poisoner, charmed the Countess and had been Ross' star pupil. Two years after disappearing the kid had wiped out a whole criminal organisation in Berlin, on his own. Possibly on a whim, protecting a friend or some helpless kid he did not know or a puppy. You never knew with Rider, strangely moralistic, yet a superb killer at 14; even if he swore it was always an accident. His track record had fuelled the gossip in Venice: with ten of Sayle's henchmen dead by his hand, even if the odious creep was iced by Cossack for his incompetence wasting all that precious biological agent. Walker's own favourite was Grief blown up in a helicopter Rider launched a jet ski at. His Russian boss boasted witnessing Cray macerated alive in a jet engine by Rider. The creepiest, and the one taught in Three's current classes, was Sarov being psyched out enough to shoot himself. Then Nile and Rothman were killed during confrontations with the teenager too moral to ice Tulip Jones. That was a difficult choice, but having to choose between Rothman and Jones, Walker would have killed darling Julia.

By ten, there was no sign of his targets emerging for dinner. Walker walked back to his digs, past one drunk hobo this time, who was clutching a bottle of moderately decent vodka. Someone had been either very generous or extremely careless to loose the twenty bucks. The other younger dirtbag was probably hustling the tourist hotspots to get enough moolah to get high. Seven blocks to the one room apartment rented through a business front, as he was posing as a salesman in town training a new team up. He checked the door, his safety marks in place, no sign of tampering. Checking once again he was unobserved, he finally relaxed and pulled out his key. Nothing to report tonight, so he could drink a few brews, microwave a pizza, eat chips and watch a game on TV, like he was the god fearing, unquestioningly patriotic, republican voting, good old boy his parents failed to raise him to be.

He stepped in and switched on the light, the place had been thoroughly cleaned. There were two bottles of bleach on the kitchen unit, a packet of plastic sheeting on the floor and then behind him was the sharp point of a blade pressing through his coat and shirt to touch his spine. The precise location to paralyse leaving the victim able to breath, but helpless for interrogation. The ex CIA had drawn his own conclusions and quipped drily "Evening Rider, thanks for cleaning the shithole. Planning to dismember me?"

In soft Russian with a cultured Moscow accent the assailant neither confirmed nor denied his identity, only on file Rider had no training in Russian, but knew Walker was a passable conversationalist, "It's one option, I guess you aren't here to kill me, so play nice and tell me who you are reporting to and I might let you collect the readies for this well paying stakeout. I do hope it is well paid. "

"My rate for a undercover work plus triple hazard rates for expenses. I'm creaming it in. Private hire from Cossack, through the bastard's own bank account. Pays to know that because chances are he might be icing me once I finish. You were always his special little guy, weren't you, Alex." It was a gamble throwing in the truth and his first name, but the kid liked open honesty. Psychology 101 was to make a connection of common ground, not exactly empathy, cause he had no idea how much of a professional killer he was trying to emote with.

The knife was no longer in place to sever his spinal cord. The threat was still there, as his own assessment of Alex Rider was that he was even more dangerous than both Cossack and Three together. As smart at Three and as talented a killer as his boss. No wonder Cossack was after the kid, possibly as a successor or to take SCORPIA to the heights of their hey day in the eighties, feared and unequaled in the freelance field providing services to revolutionaries, terrorist and agencies alike.

There was a loud sigh, Alex pushed the past his quarry. He already knew there were no neighbours as all units on the floor were empty except this one, the refit supposed to start three weeks ago had been rescheduled until the start of the next month. "That is quite a bomb shell to process, Dwight. Now, I have to speak with Cossack. Guess both of us were unlucky enough to survive chest wounds and dying."

Rather than cringe at the use of his own given name, Walker's best poker face was in place, he watched the kid put coffee on, open the fridge and then he caught the bottle of Michelob thrown at him. The kid then put one of two take out containers in the microwave, both that had not been there this morning. "Hunan Chicken and Beef Chow Mein." Alex informed his former classmate. Glad you got my text to get out of Malagosto before Cavalry arrived."

"Thanks for that, Ross and the Potions Mistress owe you as well. Shit, kid, Ross mourned you. Still gets drunk on decent malt to celebrate your birthday. He's a happy drunk at least. I don't think any of us could handle a depressed or an angry Scotsman with his skill set. Based in the Far East now, Cossack consolidated Wu's empire, steering clear of China's interests. A sort of truce with the Yakuza and the Russians. It's work, not bad overall. Dare I ask about Berlin?"

"You'll hear all about it when I call your boss. Lone wolf like Cossack in charge, you all must just atop yourselves if you make a mistake, because he does not like sloppiness." Alex was busy heating up the second carton as he started to plate up supper. "Let's eat first then call the big bad wolf. Might as well find out if we're toast on a full stomach."

...

It had been a shit day, a worse evening which had morphed into an all-nighter. Four subordinates had cleared out their desks watched over by security, one was being investigated for fraud. At 3AM he had signed the directive to close the production line in Korea and move the workforce over to their hardware division. No losses there, just no more phones with the Roscoe name on them. They were considered old fashioned and clunky anyway. In the long run he had plugged a slow drain of resources on an otherwise successful company. They made the money from running the service network anyway. Their competition made better phones and had invested more in their tech with better development protocols. Their phone division had been pissing money up the wall since his father's death.

Finally getting upstairs at 4, a tired and irate exec wanted to avoid waking lover, so went to nap on the sofa, expecting Alex to wake him at 6 when he got up for a run in the gym downstairs. He woke at 10 by the sunlight streamed through the open blinds. Alex's shift had started at 9, so he went to see if he had overslept. The bed was made. Going for a shower he noted Alex's toiletries were gone. In the closet, the clothes he had brought with him had disappeared but there was a note on the self.

'Not goodbye, just a break. Have been tailed by a Malagosto professional. Ivan downstairs noted him as well, so I'm not imagining it. Gone to sort it out. Your delightful grandmother paid me a visit as well at work today. Poor you. I'd have dropped a boat on her within a month. I can get on with that, once I finish with the nosey Parker. Please destroy this incriminating evidence, so I don't end up on a murder charge if a crane drops a canal barge on her while she's shopping for designer handbags on fifth avenue. Love, hugs, kisses and lots of R rated stuff Alex. PS act the full on broken hearted emotional wreck with Ms van Snooty to see her reaction preferably during her cocktail hour get together with the Pilgrim Fathers Extremely Bitchy Daughters Club.'

The truth was life with his long term crush had been both brilliant and an eye opener that Alex was not one for conventional on any level. Paul's few fumbles at school and college had been nothing compared to living with a guy with the reality of sex whenever and wherever they dared. He had bottomed for the first time, gone all out with sex toys, role play and some more kinkier bondage stuff. Alex was game for anything and always seemed to read the mood when his lover wanted more or something different. His own paranoia meant he only dared one night stands before. It would be divine justice to rip his grandmother a new one. He had to be pitch perfect to carry this off. Maybe he wouldn't shower. Rumpled suit, check. Stubble check. Not enough sleep and could pass for no sleep, yep. Shame he could not video the confrontation for the guys to enjoy as well.


End file.
